


nothing in the world so well as you

by hihoplastic



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/M, Post-Episode: 2015 Xmas The Husbands of River Song
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-13
Updated: 2016-09-13
Packaged: 2018-08-14 15:11:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,154
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8018830
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hihoplastic/pseuds/hihoplastic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He’d worried over that first dinner, weeks ago, if it would be strange.  Not for him—his hands pressed against his thighs to keep from touching her, his smile tempered to keep from scaring her—but if she wouldn’t feel the same, want the same, love the same.  If she’d see in his face the stranger she’d originally thought, or if he’d become himself again in her eyes—her Doctor.</p>
            </blockquote>





	nothing in the world so well as you

**Author's Note:**

> \- thanks to pam for reading over this so many times!  
> \- quotes from various episodes; _much ado about nothing_ and _macbeth_ (shakespeare); title from _much ado_  
>  \- for veronika, who waited so patiently for this for _months_. happy super super belated birthday! ilu!

She’s gone when he wakes. 

It hasn’t been long, he knows, but longer than he usually sleeps, has slept in centuries—since the last time she was with him, warm and alive. Not her ghost, watching him, and then the silence, haunting him. 

He’d worried over that first dinner, weeks ago, if it would be strange. Not for him—his hands pressed against his thighs to keep from touching her, his smile tempered to keep from scaring her—but if she wouldn’t feel the same, want the same, love the same. If she’d see in his face the stranger she’d originally thought, or if he’d become himself again in her eyes—her Doctor. 

She hadn’t touched him, kept her hands to herself throughout the meal, held her tongue and all its flirtation. Even still—she sleeps with him when they sleep, but never presses; kisses his cheek but not his lips, or anywhere else; she holds his hand but only when he takes it. He knows she’s doing it for him. Giving him what she thinks he wants, what he’s telegraphed to her in his own desire not to come on too strong or seem to eager or too wanton or too _much_ but he hasn’t quite found a way to tell her she’s wrong. Hasn’t found the courage to tear down the wall himself. She’s always been the brave one—now it’s his turn, and he knows he’s failing and he knows she deserves better but he still sees flashes of white and wire crowns and every instinct for self-preservation he has is screaming at him to run. 

He knows exactly how long it had been since he last saw her, how long exactly since he’d seen her ghost, down to the second. He doesn’t know how long they have left, not really. Twenty-four years, or can they leave? Can they take the TARDIS and disappear and come back a moment later, years later? Can they turn twenty-four into a hundred? Two hundred? How long can he cheat time, to stretch a minute into a mile and how much harder is he going to fall in the in between? 

Because it’s going to hurt. He knows that, has accepted it. Once she’s gone, she’ll take a part of him with her and no new face or new companion or friend will ever change that. He’ll never get it back. 

It’s taken him weeks, but he’d realized last night, eating and talking and laughing like normal people, like normal couples, like a normal husband and wife, that in trying to protect his hearts he was breaking hers. He realized, by the way her smile never quite met her eyes, by the way her hand reached for him and then pulled back, by the way she laughed like it wasn’t worth the risk, to be completely happy. 

Like it would be snatched away. 

It’s why she always left while he slept. Even in the beginning, once they shared a room and a bed she would always disappear—back to prison or Luna or off on her own adventure. It was too difficult to leave, she’d said once, while he was awake. 

He didn’t think that trend would continue, now that they’re nearly linear. Now that they have time. 

But her side of the bed is cold and there’s an imprint of her head on her pillow, the only sign she was ever there at all, and it makes his eyes sting. He can smell her perfume, but it's too faint—it feels like a dream, like everything was in his head, but it wasn’t it can’t have been, because his dreams of her have always been imperfect. Immeasurable to the real thing. 

It takes him a moment, lost in panic and frozen in place by the lump in his throat, the sting in his eyes, the horrifying realization that he hadn’t done or said enough to convince her to stay—that he wanted to stay, to notice her robe is missing. His dress shirt from the night before, folded over a chair, is also gone, and her gun-belt is still on the desk. Her diary sits next to it. 

The Doctor sighs, forcing out all the air lodged in his chest. The TARDIS hums, a gentle teasing and he huffs, throwing off the covers. 

“Couldn't have clued me in sooner?" he grumbles, resisting a smirk as the TARDIS seems to laugh. 

She's been so warm, so welcoming to her lost child he can feel it, and if he can feel it he knows River does too, perhaps even more intimately. It used to bother him, that she was connected to his ship in a way he could never be; now he's grateful, that no matter how old or young he is, no matter his reaction, his ship will always protect his wife, keep her safe, remind her that she’s loved. 

Something he’s done a terrible job of proving. 

Padding down the halls, mindless of where he’s going but confident he’ll find her, he does his best to ignore the twinge in his hearts. To forget the look on her face as she insisted he never loved her. Insisted, to a group of strangers bent on destroying them both, that he wouldn’t care. 

_Nothing is gained by you being a sentimental idiot!,_ she’d said, but he understands now: she was talking to herself. Stupid enough, sentimental enough, in love enough. A woman who breaks time has to be. 

But he’d taught her. With one phrase, he’d turned all those beautiful things into faults. Something to hide. 

_You embarrass me._

She’d repeated it to him then, on the heels of her admission: _when one’s in love._

It seems to be a habit of hers—declaration followed by censure. 

He really is an idiot. 

A light peeking out from under one of the doors catches his eye, but it isn’t until he’s halfway across the threshold that he realizes whose room it is. 

River starts, and he just barely catches the motion as she swipes a hand across her cheeks before facing him. 

“Sweetie.” Her voice doesn’t crack, but it’s lower than normal, strained even through her smile. “Couldn't sleep?”

He shrugs, paused just beyond the doorway. “Bed was empty.”

“Did you need something?”

The Doctor shrugs, and forces himself to glance around the room. It isn't as painful as he thought it would be, seeing Amy's jacket thrown over a chair, Rory’s nursing textbooks, little odds and ends they'd picked up on various planets. 

“I haven’t been in here since…” 

River nods, but looks away, down at the sweater in her lap—Rory’s, he thinks—and the photograph in her hands. 

“Neither have I.”

“Even when you were pinching my TARDIS?” he asks, because she looks too sad, and he needs her to smile. 

She does, faintly. “Doesn't count as stealing if she's willing.”

“I used to wonder,” he says, after he sits down on the edge of the bed, close enough to touch. “I’d come back and she just felt…different.”

“She did not."

"She did!” 

"You had no idea I was even here, admit it.”

"I do. I didn't _know._ But now…” He shrugs, and picks a point on the floor to stare at. “Our room smelled different, sometimes. I’d leave and come back and it would smell like you, even though you hadn’t been there. I thought I was imagining things.”

He doesn’t see her lick her lips, or follow his gaze. “I stayed in some days. Just in the Vortex or above whatever planet you were on and…” Out of the corner of his eye, he sees her fingers curl around Rory’s sweater. “I’ve always slept better here.”

“I know.”

When he doesn’t elaborate, she nudges his shoulder with hers. “You aren’t cross I stole your ship to take a nap?”

The Doctor snorts. “‘Course not. Anyone else, but what’s mine is yours and all that.” He hears her sharp intake of breath, and covers it with, “But this means I get to redecorate _your_ house. I’m thinking Western. A few horse statues, maybe some plaid.” 

River rolls her eyes, but she’s still looking at him with that same fondness, and his hearts skip a beat. 

“What’s mine is yours,” she murmurs, adding, “But if I come home to a house full of animal prints and taxidermy there _will_ be retribution.” 

“What, painting the console pink? Gonna put a canopy over our bed?” When she merely stares at him, he feels his face begin to crinkle. “She’d never let you.”

“Wanna bet?” 

He scowls, but it’s mostly for show—she could turn every room upside down and decorate with butterflies for all he cares. He just wants her to stay. 

“Twenty-four years is a long time,” he says, “I’m sure we can compromise.” 

Her smile falters, then brightens—too bright, too wide, and he frowns before she has a chance to interject. 

“What did I say?”

“What?”

“You look sad again.”

She swallows. “Nothing. I mean, I’m not.”

“Yes you are.”

“Doctor—”

“It’s not that I never noticed before,” he admits, flinching even as the words leave his mouth. “I just didn’t want to talk about it.”

Where there should be anger, resentment, pain, she looks at him only with understanding. A small smile. 

“I know.”

“I don’t have an ignoring face anymore.”

River tilts her head and studies him. “What kind of face do you have?”

“Grumpy. Scottish.” _Besotted,_ he thinks, but can’t quite bring himself to say. He looks around the room, Amy and Rory’s things still in their places, everything untouched, but never dusty. Perfectly preserved. Not a shrine, not really, but a capsule. 

He thinks of losing them. The way it winded him. 

He thinks of River, losing them. The way it hadn’t seemed to matter at all. 

“I don’t want this to be twenty-four years of you hiding the damage.” 

She flinches, turning away, spine straightening and her jaw tensing and he reaches out before she can shut down completely. He knows his hands are too rough, his skin too weathered, but he touches her anyway, cups her cheek in his palm and tilts her chin up. 

“Don’t,” he murmurs, hoping he sounds desperate rather than annoyed. 

“Then don’t lie to me,” she returns, her voice harsh but wavering. She doesn’t pull away, but it’s almost worse, somehow, when she covers his hand with hers and says, “It’s a gesture, and I love it, but we both know—twenty-four years is a dream. Don’t try to convince me that it’s real.”

“Why not?”

 _Why wouldn't it be?_ is what he wants to ask, but he’s terrified. Still, somehow, of her leaving because she wants to. He has no reason to doubt her love, he knows that, but it's still there. Just a small dark spot on an otherwise full heart.

River shakes her head, jostling his hand while she drops hers to her lap. 

“River—”

“I thought maybe there’d be something here,” she says, gesturing weakly to the room. “I went to their house after, made sure everything was in order. They’d left it to Brian, so I posed as a lawyer—but he already knew. Their son, Anthony—he’d already found him, not a day after they were gone. He didn't recognize me.” 

“Brian?”

“Or Anthony. They didn't—” She stops, hands fisting in the sweater. “I never expected them to tell their families about me. I understood that. But I thought…” She shakes her head. “I don’t know what I thought.”

Her voice cracks and he covers her hand with his. It startles her, makes her eyes widen and water and it’s such a small thing; he thinks of all the times before he should have reached out. 

She’d never asked him for it. Never forced his touch in any way, even when he knows now she must have craved it, yearned for it in a way she’d never admit, not when she lived with the fear he’d deny her. Her eyes fall to their hands—his, wrinkled now and rough, hers still smooth and warm. He’d done his best, they both know that, but he wishes he’d known—he’s always drawn strength from her. He’d never realized she did the same from him. 

“I was never really their daughter, was I?” 

It’s rhetorical. She knows the answer, but she looks up at him with such hope. Before, he might have been able to give it to her. Might have even believed it. 

“No,” he agrees, brushing his thumb over her wrist. “Their daughter was lost at Demon’s Run. It was easier for them that way.”

River swallows, but she doesn't pull away, doesn't replace the tender air with distance. 

“But they loved you.”

Her laugh is a crackle between them. 

“They resented me. As soon as they found out—I could have changed it. I could have told you where to find me. Rewritten everything.”

“And blown a hole in the universe.”

“Maybe. Not like I haven't done it before.”

_That would mean nothing to anyone. Worse, it’s stupid._

He grips her hand tighter. “Why didn't you?”

He’s never asked—always assumed, but never verified, too selfish and afraid to find out if he was wrong.

But River smiles, small and sad. “You really don't know?” and relief sweeps up his spine.

“I do.”

“They’d have found someone else. Someone less likely to fall in love with you. I couldn't risk—”

“I couldn't have done it anyway.”

River stills, glancing up at him with a frown. “What do you mean?”

“For you, I might have. If you’d asked me. If you'd wanted me to—but even then— You're too important.”

River shrugs, sitting up straighter. “I suppose. The Angels alone would leave quite a mess. And the Pandorica—though I suppose undoing my timeline would undo some of that as well—”

“To me.”

She stops her rambling, one of her few nervous habits, and frowns. “What?”

He sighs. “I meant you're too important _to me._ I wouldn't have changed anything no matter how much they begged. Only if you'd asked.”

She shakes her head. “I never would.”

“Because they'd find someone else?”

River snorts, glaring at him. “Don't be stupid,” she scolds gently.

“Just checking,” he grumbles, slipping his arm over her shoulder to play with the ends of her hair. 

“Idiot,” she murmurs.

“So are you,” he mutters, squeezing her arm and drawing her closer. River sighs against him, her free hand coming up to rest over his hearts again. She doesn't say anything for a long time, and the Doctor closes his eyes, turning his face into her hair and breathing deeply. With his hand still over hers, their thighs touching, her fingers just barely over the lip of his shirt, barely on bare skin, he feels himself sink into her, body relaxing, thoughts slipping from his mind to hers. 

It's nothing he hasn't thought before, nothing he hasn't tried to convey before but he feels River still, feels her fingers fist in his collar, nails scraping over his chest. 

“River…” Her name is more a vibration in his chest than a word, and she shudders, turning her face in, neck bowed. “River.” A little louder, a little more believable: “Talk to me.”

She sighs. “There’s nothing—”

The Doctor makes a frustrated noise in the back of his throat, one that draws River out of her curl. “Did you just _growl_ at me?”

She pushes her hair back from her face and he instantly misses the warmth of her hand, her body pressed against his. 

“I don't growl,” he mutters. “It was a scolding.”

“A scolding?”

“Yes, a scolding.”

River’s lips quirk. “Not very effective.”

“Got your attention, didn't it?”

“I don't think that's the point of a—”

“No, the point is the same point it was five weeks ago when you pretended there was no point.”

“Doctor—”

“Why don't you think it’s twenty-four years?”

River purses her lips, staring down at Rory’s sweater. 

He waits, infinitely more patient than he used to be, lets the silence stretch until she sighs, until she caves.

“Because it's too good to be true. Because we’ve spent our entire relationship out of order, a year together at a time at most and I don't want—”

She stops, and he waits, squeezing the hand he can't stop holding. 

“I don't want you to do this because you feel obligated. Because of what I said. Because of…whatever happens after.”

The Doctor stiffens and she looks up at him, finally, eyes wide and empty of blame. 

“Whatever it is, it's not your fault.”

“You don't know that.”

“Of course I do,” she murmurs, smiling gently. “I trust you. To make the right call.”

He looks away, eyes stinging and he hates this, hates all of it, hates the disbelief in her eyes and the future, looming, and his own inability to say what he feels in a way that matters. In a way that she’ll accept. 

_Say it like you're going to come back._

Her hand on his cheek brings him back, and she presses her forehead to his, her breath ghosting over his cheek. 

“Twenty-four years is a long time,” she murmurs, a question, and he squeezes his eyes shut.

“Not long enough.”

“Doctor—”

“It’s not a gesture, River,” he says, his voice too harsh, too deep for sentiment, and he can tell she doesn’t quite believe him, even when he adds, “It’s a gift. As much for me as it is for you.”

“How can it be?” She shakes her head, gesturing to the room. “The last time we were together for any length of time we nearly tore each other apart.”

“Because you wouldn’t talk to me.”

River snorts. “You didn’t want me to talk to you. You couldn’t have handled both our griefs, Doctor.”

“And you could?”

River looks away, deflating. “No,” she murmurs. “It’s why I left.”

“You left because you were scared,” he says, not unkindly, but she tenses, and he almost loves that—the way she readies for a fight. “You thought if you let yourself grieve, you wouldn’t be able to hide the damage.” 

River sighs. “I have no problem letting you see me cry. I’ve done it before.” 

He thinks of space suits and lake floors and Libraries and has to force the images to the back of his mind, has to take a moment to breathe. 

“No, you just didn’t want me to see the damage I caused.”

Her eyes widen. “You didn’t—”

“Yes, I did. And it doesn’t do either of us any good pretending otherwise. You didn’t want me to know how badly I’d hurt you, because you knew I’d hate myself for it.”

“Sweetie—”

“I already did.” His thumb brushes over her wrist. “I just didn’t know how to—”

“I know.”

“I know you know,” he murmurs. “But sometimes, River… we know each other too well. We second guess each other. We assume instead of… talking.”

She raises her eyebrows. “You want to talk? About our feelings?”

“Of course not,” he grumbles, “I hate it. I’m rubbish and you lie and it never ends well. But I need to know—”

“What?”

“What do I need to do to convince you?”

She pulls back, brow furrowed. “What?” 

“What do you need to hear, to believe this is what I want? That it’s not an obligation or a ruse or whatever else you've made up in that ridiculous head of yours.”

“Doctor, you don't have to—”

“Tell me.”

“I need—” she starts, and stops, and he realizes she’s never been asked before, never said the words. They fall awkwardly from her tongue, a foreign language she never learned to speak, her well-being buried under own her duty of care. 

Part of him wishes he hadn't asked. When she finally answers, her voice cracking, so unsure, but her gaze so hopeful. It’s why he never asked before, never wanted to face the insecurity he fostered. But she deserves more, deserves better.

“Was I wrong?” She barrels over herself. “Only, it’s been weeks and you haven't said—and it’s fine if I wasn't, really, I just—I need the truth. I could bare it, you know,” she murmurs, looking away. “If you never loved me. I could understand that. It would still be worth it. But I can't spend a quarter century pretending to play domestic.” The smile she gives him is brilliant, blinding. “I may be lovesick, Doctor, but I'm not a fool. Don't make me one. Just tell me—”

He can't stand it. Can’t imagine, if his suffering knits his chest and staggers his breathing and cinches his hearts just listening to her talk, what it’s done to her. 

He raises his fingers to cover her mouth but his lips beat them to it, slant over hers and his fingers relocate to her jaw and he holds her to him carefully, like she might shatter; but his mouth against hers is firm and desperate and he swallows her gasp, wraps his tongue around hers and clicks their teeth together and it’s messy and awkward and it takes him a moment to realize the reason it isn't working is because he’s talking, mumbling into her mouth the word _wrong_ , over and over again until his brain catches up enough to say, “You were wrong. Very, very wrong. You should get a prize in wrongness for how wrong you—”

“Shut up,” she whispers, and he appeases her, but only because her hand curls around the back of his neck and she lets him haul her closer, until she's half-straddling him and her breasts are crushed against his chest and he can feel all four of their hearts in double-time. Only because she keeps kissing him, with the same devotion, the same fervor he remembers and he feels his own insecurities quiet. Feels his face become _her_ face, one she owns so utterly, so completely; feels whole, finally, in this old skin, because of the way her thumb brushes over his cheekbone the same and her lips are slightly chapped the same and she smells the same and tastes the same and _is_ the same, his River, the way she’s always been and always will be. By the way she shudders, tearing her mouth from his to turn their kiss into an embrace, clinging to him, body shuddering, face buried in his neck. She still can't show him, not entirely, but he can feel tears on his neck and he knows, by the way she sinks into him that she’s trying. 

“I hate you,” she whispers, and he knows he’s said most of his thoughts aloud. 

Sweeping a hand up and down her spine, he smiles against her hair. “No, you don't.”

She sniffs, and laughs, and after a moment kisses him again, both hands on his face even as he drags his lips over her jaw, under her ear, over her eyes. He kisses the tip of her nose and the smile she bestows makes him do it again, makes him capture that smile with his own. 

River sighs into him, hands moving down to fist in the collar of his robe but she doesn't stop kissing him, and he can’t complain. His hands find her hips, content for a moment to hold her to him, thumbs brushing over the fabric of his own button-up. Her mouth is warm, her smile still tangible, her arms looped around his neck, nails scraping gently through his hair and over the nape of his neck. He shudders, hands slipping down to rest on her thighs, somehow realizing for the first time they’re bare, that she’s clad only in his shirt and a pair of knickers, and he can’t quite help a groan escape between their mouths. River smirks, and he nips at her lower lip in retaliation. 

“Hush,” he grumbles, but can’t resist sliding his hands up and down her legs, from her knees to the edge of her knickers, knuckles brushing against his shirt. When he slips a hand under her thigh, fingers brushing the underside of her knee, River twitches and pulls back enough to glower, though it’s mitigated by her bright eyes and breathlessness. 

“Still ticklish,” he grins. 

River rolls her eyes. “I’m not the one who’s changed.”

The Doctor frowns, palms settling on her thighs. “Is that what you’re worried about? That I’ve changed?”

River blinks, startled, then shrugs. “You’re always the same man,” she says, but her words are too casual, too careful, too practiced, like she’s tried to convince herself a thousand times. 

“Different tastes, though. ‘A man loves the meat in his youth that he cannot endure in his age.’”

River swallows, shifting slightly in his lap like she wants to stand, to run. Instead, she rubs her thumb over the base of his neck and arches an eyebrow, settling herself back against him. “Are you planning a proposal or calling me dinner?”

“Can’t I do both?”

He laughs, then yelps as she digs her nails briefly into his skin. River rolls her eyes, but he can still see her trying to be brave. He’s fairly sure she doesn’t think he’s about to up and walk away, but the insecurity hasn’t completely faded, and he doesn’t expect it to. Before, perhaps, but not now, not after what he’s seen, and he subconsciously tightens his grip on her thighs. 

“Doctor?”

A hand settles against his cheek, and he leans into her, nuzzling her palm. 

“It's different,” he murmurs, “this body. I like apples now. I'm oblivious. I'm not very nice.”

River shrugs. “Neither am I.”

“I don't like hugs. I don't like…” He fumbles for the words.

“Hand-holding?”

He grimaces. “It feels wrong.”

She nods slowly, lets her hand fall from his cheek to the collar of his robe. 

“What else?”

He frowns, and she huffs, a familiar combination of exasperated and bemused. 

“If you're trying to tell me this body isn't one for physical intimacy, you've got an interesting way of going about it.”

“It isn't,” he says, then quickly backtracks at the stricken expression that crosses her face. “Usually, I mean. So far.”

She shifts, and he anchors her to him by the hips. 

“Doctor—”

“You're different.”

She shakes her head. “I don't need you to—”

“I'm not.” Tightening his grip on her thigh to keep from running a hand through his hair, he admits, “I haven't cared, River. Since before I regenerated. Since the last time I saw you. I thought—”

It sticks in his throat, like it always does.

River touches his cheek again, the shell of his ear, fingers fluttering over his temple. “Tell me.”

“I thought it was over. I thought we were—” He can't place them in the same sentence. “So I ran until I couldn't and then stopped running. And the last time…”

He thinks of clouds and dark clothes, winter that never felt cold enough for the ache in his chest. He thinks of the TARDIS, equally tired, equally mourning. 

She’d known they'd see her child again, and still. He could hear her, sometimes, a sound almost like weeping.

He says nothing, and River brushes her thumb over his cheekbone.

“Spoilers.”

“Yeah.”

For a moment they're quiet, breathing in the air the other exhales, no movement except for River’s gentle hand carding through his hair. 

“Sweetie…”

He groans at her tone of voice, already placating, already worried. “River—”

She silences him with two fingers over his lips. He glares. “I don't _need_ this,” she says after a moment, letting her hand fall away. His lips tingle, the sensation is so distracting he almost misses her words. “Sex. Physicality. I… I love it.” She forces herself to smile. “I love being with you, I love… holding your hand. But not at the expense of your comfort.”

“River—”

“Nothing happens that you don't want,” she interrupts, eyes finding his, holding firmly. “If you'd rather we sleep in separate rooms, or you only want to go as far as this, then that's what happens.” His disbelief or annoyance must show, because her voice hardens, eyes sparking and he knows he shouldn't find it sexy as hell but he does, and he smirks at the irony, the wrong reaction evidently because River snaps. “I mean it, Doctor. I won't thank you for lying to me or pretending otherwise or—”

“River—”

“I'll leave.” His hands clench instinctively around her hips, but she doesn't seem to notice. “I swear to god, Doctor, if you lie to me about this because you think it's what I need or what I want and it’s something you don't I swear to _god_ I’ll leave and I won't come back and you can spend twenty-four years here by yourself if you even think of—”

He barely manages to growl out a, “Shut up,” before his lips are on hers, tongue in her mouth and his hand spread over the back of her head, fingers in her hair, curls catching on his ring. His other hand slides from her hip to splay across her back and he loves that, still, how much of her his hand takes up. 

“Doctor—” she murmurs, breathless against his lips but she's not _getting_ it, not paying attention so he hauls her even closer, and wishes he hand more hands, so he could cup her face and hold her hips and wrap his arms around her waist all at the same time, wishes he could touch her thighs and bury his fingers in her hair and rub light circles on the side of her breasts like he knows she likes. River whimpers, and her hand in his hair suddenly tightens, her grip bruising and mouth more forceful, desperate, like she wants to climb inside him and he wants to let her. She shifts, rising up more on her knees to touch his face, and the angle presses their hips together in a way that shorts his eyesight and stutters his breath. 

“ _River,_ ” he manages, barely, and lifts his hips up, seeking, and River obliges, moving again and he can't breathe but he can't stop kissing her, mouth trembling over her jaw, her ear, down her neck. Her head lolls to the side and he finds the place just above her collarbone that makes her gasp, latches there and scrapes his teeth over her skin. 

“Not fair,” she breathes, clutching his head so he’ll stay there. Her body jerks when he bites down none too gently, and then shudders. “You know everything.”

He snorts. “How do you think I felt?”

“That's different,” she pants, allowing him to move on, across her collarbone. “We weren't linear, then.”

“Guess you have some catching up to do,” he mutters, sucking at her neck until he knows it will bruise. He wants to mark her, he finds. A sudden, desperate desire to leave proof all over her body that she’s _his,_ not Ramone’s or Cleopatra's or anyone else’s. _His._

“Doctor,” she breathes, a note of question still lingering and he grumbles, annoyed at having to put enough space between them to meet her gaze. When he does, he instantly softens, all his irritation at her obliviousness dissipating at the sight of her, hair mangled and cheeks flushed, lips swollen, almost convinced but not entirely, and he realizes now—and should have before—that she needs words. Not _I love you_ —she’s never asked for that and he doesn't know if he could, if it would be enough—but she knows better than most how poetic he can be, how inspiring, how his speech alone can change minds and hearts and she's seen him do it, just never for her. 

For her there are actions—the brightest night of stars and a healed wrist and Stevie Wonder under London Bridge, but he thinks back to the balcony, the way her eyes stayed shadowed all through his speech, her quiet sigh—somehow relieved and resigned at once—the way she didn't smile until he’d said plainly, _twenty-four years._

“You still don't get it, do you?” he says, and it comes out harsher than he intended, his own inadequacies sharpening his tongue. River doesn't flinch, not physically, but he clenches his jaw, already making a mess of things. 

With a deep breath, he tries again, keeping his voice low and as calm as he can make it. As honest. “This doesn't change,” he says softly, thumbs brushing over her skin beneath his shirt. “We’re not—even then, when I was an idiot, I thought about—before we—well, after too, but even before, I was—” 

Sensing his frustration, River kisses him briefly quiet. “I don't need poetry, Doctor. Just tell me.”

“I want you,” he says in a rush, forcing the words out of his mouth before he can equivocate. “Sexually. Other ways, too, but—”

She kisses him again, fiercely, unrestrained, and he realizes that even in their earlier kisses she was holding back, waiting for the fallout and he squeezes his eyes shut, pushing away the self-loathing far enough to kiss her back, singlemindedly, emptying his mind of everything but the warmth of her and smell of her and taste of her. The ever-present thrum of time fades out, everything bright and clear and he tears his mouth from hers, smiling at her whine. 

“Much as I love where this is going,” he mutters, and feels her hearts skip at the words, “Amy’s room isn't what I had in mind.”

River smirks and nips at his jaw. “What? Afraid my father is going to jump out of the past with a broadsword?”

The Doctor snorts, but glances around uneasily. “Stranger things have happened where those two were involved.”

River laughs softly, and to his absolute horror, starts to climb off his lap. He panics, gripping her hips. “River—”

She smiles, amused, and cups his cheek. “I thought we might relocate somewhere less unnerving for you,” she teases, offering him her hand. 

The simple gesture makes him flush and his hearts pick up speed and as much as he wants, he can't bear the idea of letting her go that far. 

So he doesn't.

Standing quickly, he slips his hands under her thighs and takes her with him, grinning when she yelps and wraps her arms instinctively around his neck.

“Doctor!”

“Too much space,” he mumbles into her neck.

“You're going to have to put me down to— _oh_ —walk.”

He frowns at the predicament, and River takes his distraction to slip down, her feet on the floor but her body still pressed to his. 

“I promise not to go far,” she says, and it means this, and means something else, and means everything— _twenty-four years_ —and not waking up alone. 

He releases a sharp breath and nods and takes her hand, pulling her with him, stopping occasionally to push her against the wall and slide his fingers into her hair, his mouth against hers. 

They stumble into their bedroom, flushed and giddy and he walks backward until his knees hit the bed and he lets himself fall, pulling her down with him, and they stay there for a moment, kissing as his hands grow more and more restless, sweeping up her back beneath his shirt, her bare skin warm and soft. 

He feels like an addict, every touch makes him want more, and he tries to use his wrists to push the shirt up, annoyed when it refuses to stay. 

River laughs against his mouth and sits up; he’s momentarily affronted until he realizes her hands have gone to the edges of his shirt, crossed to tug it over her head like it’s nothing, like she has a thousand times before when they were in this position and it's not what he wants, abruptly, wants something different. 

Changed. 

“Wait.”

River stills, and he covers her hands with his before she can get the wrong idea. 

“Let me.”

She softens, her smile small but real, so much affection in her eyes that it burns. 

Her hands fall away, and he starts from the bottom, undoing the last button, trembling hands mapping every inch of skin revealed as he works his way up, over her belly button, between her ribcage, between her breast. He can feel her gaze on him but didn't look, can't look at anything for the moment except the arc of her collarbone as he draws the shirt open, just over her shoulders. 

River shudders, and it takes him a moment to realize he’s splayed his hand over her stomach. It’s possessive, more so than he’s been before, at least outwardly. She looks surprised but not displeased, and yet he feels a lump rise in his throat. He shouldn't ask, doesn't want to know, but the words bubble up regardless.

“Did you do this with Hydroflax?”

River stills, frowning at him. “What, sex?” He nods, and she rolls her eyes. “He was a robot.”

“He said—”

“Hydroflax’s idea of ‘pleasure’ was a head massage and neurocortical stimulator, neither of which he actually needed me for.”

“You've dated androids.”

“They're rubbish.”

“So you've said.”

River tilts her head, scrutinizing him for a long moment before she leans back from him. 

“Ask me what you really want to know.”

There’s an edge to her voice, half dare, half warning. He’s never been good at heeding either.. 

“Ramone,” he admits, eyes darting to the side. “Did you—”

“And if I had?”

His jaw twitches and he has to force himself to take a deep breath, but he can't give her the answer she wants so he stays silent, desperately trying not to think of Ramone’s hands where his have been. 

River sighs and runs a hand through her hair. “Is this really when you want to have this conversation?”

The Doctor scowls. “Of course not.”

“Then why—”

“I can't help it. I'm angry and Scottish and possessive and I don't like—”

He purses his lips to keep from saying anything he’ll regret. 

River shakes her head, voice soft but firm. “It’s my body, Doctor. My life.”

“I know that.”

“I can't sit around waiting for you all the time.”

“I know.”

“Then why—”

“Did it mean anything?” he manages, the words forced out between his teeth. “With Ramone. With—anyone.”

“Anyone else, you mean?”

He nods curtly and refuses to meet her gaze, staring down at his hand, still on her stomach, the other curled around her hip. 

“Of course not,” she huffs. “He doesn't _know_ me, Doctor, nothing beyond what I wanted him to know and half of that was a lie.”

“You employed him.”

She shrugs. “He was pretty, and did whatever I told him to without question.”

He snorts. “You need better companions.”

“He wasn’t a companion.” The Doctor starts to protest, but she cuts him off. “I employ people, Doctor. I pay them. They’re not my friends.”

“You certainly looked cozy enough—”

River glares, shrugging the shirt back up over her shoulders, and he winces at the way she hides herself. 

“Out of the two of us, you’re not the one who has any right to be insecure.” 

“And you do?” he challenges, further aggravated at his own inability to shut up when she stands, paces a few feet away and folds her arms across her chest. He feels cold, feels the lack of her acutely, and clenches his hands against his thighs to keep from reaching out, certain it wouldn't be welcome. 

“You tell me.”

He flinches, dropping his gaze to the floor, but he hears her sigh.

“You never cared before.”

He snorts, glaring up at her. “Of course I cared.” At her raised eyebrow, he scrubs a hand over his face. “You think I enjoyed finding naked portraits of you in Caesar’s Palace? Or love letters to a ‘gold haired goddess’?”

River huffs. “Or photographs of you with Frank and Marilyn? Rumors of the bow-tie wearing idiot who wooed Annie Oakley?”

“That was you!”

“It was not.”

“Of course it was!”

“Doctor, I think I'd know whether or not I—” He gives her a look, and to her credit, she looks faintly embarrassed. “Oh.”

“ _Spoilers._ ”

River waves a hand in front of her face. “My point stands.”

“I never slept with Marilyn.”

River stills.

“Or Frank, for that matter, or anyone else.”

He watches the line of her throat as she swallows. “You've never been that sexual, Doctor, especially in your last—”

“It had nothing to do with that. I didn't _want_ —” _anyone but you_ , he thinks, but the words catch and he tugs his hair in agitation. 

“I thought it was mutual,” she says after a moment. “I thought, when we weren't together—I didn't know it bothered you.” She sounds like she doesn't quite believe it. “Why didn't you say anything?”

He snorts. “Say what? ‘Could you please put your life on hold when I'm not around, ‘cause I'm a jealous idiot and the thought of you shagging anyone else makes me want to put my head in a blender?’”

She shrugs. “That’ve worked.”

“River—”

“Do you think our marriage means so little to me that I would intentionally hurt you like that? For a shag, of all things?”

He blinks, startled, and River sighs, dropping her arms as she crosses back toward him. He sits up, legs opening instinctively to give her room to stand between them, head tilting into her palm. 

“You really are the stupidest man I've ever met.”

He mutters an agreement, but he’s too focused on having her close again, one hand settling on the back of her thigh, the other curled around the edge of his shirt, knuckles brushing against her stomach. 

“And if you don't know by now how much, how _stupidly_ I love you…”

His eyes snap to hers and his throat tightens, her words reverberating in his head like strobe lights. He knows, of course, has heard her say it to strangers but never directly to him, not while he was awake. She used to say it when she thought he was asleep, just her lips moving across his chest, sounds ghosting his ear. 

But now she's looking down at him with a mix of utter devotion, exasperation, and anxiety, as if she’s said too much, but she's always been the bravest one of them all, in this and everything else, so she sighs and adds quietly, “Not one living thing, Doctor. Not one.”

“Or you,” he whispers, turning his face to kiss her palm. When he meets her gaze she looks tired—wrung out and older than he’s ever seen her—but so beautiful. All her little imperfections to match his own. Dropping his head to rest against her sternum, he thinks of all the times and ways she’s told him exactly that—that he’s worth more than he could ever hope to be, at least in her eyes. A universe collapsing under the weight of her love, a broken wrist, _not one line, don't you dare._

He shudders, hands sliding up her back, clinging tighter than he’s ever dared. She seems to understand, her body relaxing under his touch, hands smoothing through his hair. It’s more tenderness than he deserves, but he'll take in anyway, and pray he can give it back. 

Pressing a single kiss between her breasts, he tugs her back against him, her knees on either side of his hips but this time he lays back, bringing her with him, mouth seeking hers. River sinks into him, moving only to help him push the shirt off her shoulders and down her arms. He tosses it aside, moaning into her mouth at all the bare skin under his palms. Between them, he can feel River fumbling with the tie in his robe, shoving it aside to slide her hands up under his tshirt. The first featherlight touch against his stomach makes him twitch, and River smirks against his mouth. 

Still, she puts more pressure into the caress, still soft but no longer ticklish, and he relaxes back into her, concentrating on the warmth of her, the dip of her waist and notches in her spine, the ends of her hair brushing his fingers with every sweep of his hands up her back. 

River makes a frustrated noise in the back of her throat and finally forces him to sit up, shoving the robe away and pulling his t-shirt over his head. 

He inhales sharply, unused to being looked at, being touched—it’s been so long with only the memory of her, and there's a part of him waiting for her to disappear. That if he closes his eyes, if he stops touching her or drinking her in, she'll vanish, and he’ll be alone. 

And then her lips are on his neck, her hands against his shoulders, pushing him down again as she trails kisses over his chest. Her fingers map his arms, the muscles and bones, as if she’s drawing him in her mind, creating a picture of him with only her lips and tongue and touch and he tries to breathe deeply, evenly. Her hair surrounds his nose and mouth but he can't bring himself to smooth it down; she smells exactly how he’d remembered, and he’s suddenly grateful that of all the things he’s forgotten, she wasn't one of them. Not even this.

She moves lower, mouthing kisses over his ribs while her hands settle on his hips, fingers teasing the edge of his boxers. He shudders, cock twitching as her breasts brush against his groin when she moves, and he feels her grin against his skin. 

“Minx,” he mutters, tangling his hands in her hair when she moves too low to keep touching her. 

She presses a kiss to his belly button then looks up at him, resting her chin on his stomach.

“What? Have I got hair in strange places?”

River rolls her eyes fondly, teasing her nails over his skin though a thin patch of greying hair on his chest. 

“Not so far,” she says. “You're delightfully…”

She trails off, and he eyes her suspiciously. “What?”

“Soft.”

He snorts. “You mean out of shape.”

“I meant what I said.” She takes his hand, then, cradling it in her own as she runs her fingers over the pads of his, over his palms, his wrists. “Other than these,” she murmurs, touching each callous on his fingertips, “you're…I don't know. Different.”

“Brilliant deduction, Professor,” he teases, and she pinches him lightly in retaliation. 

“Don't mock me when I'm being sentimental,” she chides, and he thinks of stars and sunsets and cups her cheek, lifting her chin. 

“Never,” he manages, somehow, over the lump in his throat. 

River smiles, and for the first time he understands what Amy meant, kneeling on the floor next to a man who wasn’t really a man, but who loved like one, looking at him in a way utterly lost on him then. _Kind of a good hurt,_ she’d said. 

He feels it now, feels the anger he carries fade and the bitterness retreat. 

She’s a balm for a wound he didn't know he had, and he hasn't felt so light in years and he laughs at the wonder of it, a quiet sound that startles them both. 

“Doctor?” Her smile turns into an amused smirk that he wants to kiss away so he does, hauling her back up, clutching the back of her head. 

His other hand sneaks down to grab her arse. 

River yelps, possibly the most delightful sound he’s ever heard and he laughs again, grinning up at her.

“What's gotten into you?” 

“You,” he mumbles into her neck, nipping up along her jaw.

“Other way round, Doctor,” she smirks, “or have you forgotten?” River rolls her hips and he groans, squeezing her arse and pulling her tighter against him for the friction. “Don't worry,” she murmurs in his ear, “I'm an excellent teacher.”

“Think you have the upper hand, do you?” 

“Well—”

He kisses her before she can answer, and uses the distraction to flip them, hoisting her higher on the bed so her head hits the pillows. 

River laughs, head thrown back and he takes the opportunity to plant kisses along her jaw, down her neck, pausing occasionally to reinforce his earlier work of leaving marks. 

“Doctor,” she scolds, but it turns into a moan when he flicks his tongue out between her breasts. This close he can make out the faint age marks on her skin, stretch marks on the sides of her breast that he traces with his fingers almost reverently. 

When he catches her gaze he can see the worry— _never let him see you age._

He wants to tell her she's beautiful.

Wants to tell her he doesn't care, that he still hates endings but he's done sacrificing the middle to avoid them. That if he could have one wish, one miracle, it would be to see her grow old and grey.

They would match, then. Finally. Imperfectly.

Instead, he presses his lips to every line and every mark, remembering the ones she had before and discovering those that are new. 

There's a heat in his belly and tightness in his groin he only vaguely remembers, but he doesn't stop, doesn't do anything but touch her in all the ways he was too afraid to before. 

River arches into his hands, her breathing slow and labored and her eyes dark and wide, fixed on his motions, her hands loosely tangled in his hair. She scrapes her nails gently over his scalp when he finds a spot she likes so he lingers there, thumb rubbing back and forth across her nipple, teeth nipping at the side of her breast. 

He stays there until her skin is flushed and her eyes are glassy, until he’s thoroughly distracted by the roll of her hips and the sudden need to hear her do more than just sigh. 

Mimicking her earlier actions, he kisses a line down her stomach, crooks his fingers under her knickers and urges her up. It's silly and awkward and his ring catches in the elastic as he tries to tug them off, impatient, and River gives a throaty laugh that goes straight to his groin. 

“Who invented these damn things anyway,” he grumbles, finally managing to fling them away and return his attention to her knees, her thighs, inching his way back up her body.

“Ancient Egyptians, actually.”

“Rhetorical,” he mutters, pressing his lips to a spot on her pelvis that makes her twitch. 

“Doctor…”

It’s breathless and needy and he smiles smugly into her skin, pausing to rest his chin just below her bellybutton and stare up at her innocently as she’d done to him. 

River huffs, but her gentle hands in his hair betray her annoyance.

“Something you want, dear?”

Her pulse picks up at the endearment, and her thumb brushes over his forehead. “Just you.”

He can't spend another second not kissing her so he doesn't, surging up to cover her mouth, to swallow her moans as his hand finds its way between her thighs. Her legs fall open easily, hips arching into seeking fingers that find her warm and wet and she shudders, tearing her mouth from his to breathe heavily against his neck, fingers tight in his hair, her other hand splayed over his back. 

He tries to remember what she likes, where to press and where to circle, where a featherlight touch will drive her mad and where she needs more and he tries to ignore all the new things this body feels and hasn't before, the hard press of his cock against her leg, tingling in his stomach, sweat at the edges of his temples and the feel of her under him, breathless against his mouth. 

River gasps, hips arching into the first press of his fingers inside her and he has to close his eyes, pause to keep from rutting against her, from seeking too much too fast as her nails dig into his shoulders. 

He’s not sure they've ever been so gentle, so slow, used to adrenaline and urgency and the persistent hum of _not enough time._ He remembers long nights and drawn out release but even then, even those times carried in them something frantic, desperate, a ticking clock in his head and visions of a white light that refused to quiet. 

He thinks now of twenty four years, of two hundred, of the decades he can spend learning every part of her with intent. Not just knowing or cataloging or seeing without consideration, without recognition. 

Pressing his fingers to a place that makes her cry out, he swallows the sound with his tongue and makes a promise to himself that when she leaves, when she has to go and he has to let her there won't be a trace, not one, of insecurity left. Not one question, not one fear. 

He crooks his fingers and follows the sounds she makes, their rising pitch until she shudders, hands curling around his biceps, her eyes squeezed shut and mouth unrelenting against his. 

It’s only when his own mind clears, when he withdraws his hand to clutch at her hips instead that he manages to drag himself far enough away to see her face, her eyes still shut, a line of tears disappearing into her hair. 

His heart stutters.

“River? River, what's wrong?”

She blinks, and more tears escape and he panics, hands suddenly frantic over her skin. 

She frowns, and when his shaking fingers brush the tears from her cheeks she shakes her head, stilling him. 

“I'm fine, sweetie.”

“You're crying.”

“They're happy tears.”

“There’s no such thing.”

River smiles and kisses him, lips soft and gentle until he sinks into her, wary still but helpless to resist. 

“You think out loud, my love,” she murmurs, breath ghosting over his lips and it takes him a moment before he remembers, realizes, and he flushes.

He opens his mouth, unsure what to say but River shakes her head. “Shh,” she murmurs, smiling against his lips, “Don't ruin it.”

He snorts quietly into her neck, but her smile is contagious, the warmth of her, the way her arms wind around his neck and she keeps kissing him like there’s nowhere she'd rather be. 

He feels the same, a warm cinching of his hearts; he can’t seem to get quite enough air, his lungs tight, oxygen stalling in throat but it feels so good, like he’s drowning and glad of it. Her palms smooth up and down his spine and her even breathing whispers over his ear, no words, but he doesn’t need them, lightheaded from only the double beating of her hearts against his chest. 

“River,” he tries, he does, to say something, anything, but she silences him with her lips and tongue and he rolls his hips into her, desperate to be closer, to be consumed. Her hands find the waistband of his boxers and she pushes them down as far as she can, then uses her feet to tug them the rest of the way off, tangling somewhere at the end of the bed. The laugh he feels dies in his chest as his cock brushes against the bare skin of her leg and he nearly whimpers, dragging his mouth away from hers to bury his face in her neck, eyes squeezed shut, fingers leaving bruises on her hips. River stills, only her hands carding gently through his hair, gentle murmurs in time with his ragged breathing. 

It’s a long minute before he feels in control enough to move, to lift his head and meet her gaze, the soft smile on her lips. 

“River.”

He barely recognizes his own voice, impossibly low and gravelled but she understands, always knows, takes it as the invitation he meant it as and kisses him, one hand curled around the back of his neck, the other sliding down between them, over his chest, his stomach, lingering for a moment in the rough patch of hair between his legs before she touches him, finally, a soft but firm touch that makes him groan. 

“ _River._ ”

Her thumb brushes over the underside of his cock and he gives up on speech, all his self control focused on not jerking into her hand.

River smirks. “Been a while?”

He glares at her gentle teasing despite his relief. 

“You could say that.”

She nods, and resumes the soft slide of her hand. “How long?”

His hips stutter and his vision crosses and he doesn’t think before he blurts out, “Since you.” 

She freezes and he tries not to shudder or whine or do anything else embarrassing, and when he looks up he just catches the look on her face, eyes wide and damp, before she’s kissing him, fiercely, like she’s trying to swallow him whole and he wants to let her, more than anything. Part of him expects to burst into flames at any moment, and he’s not sure if she’s the water or the spark, but he doesn't care. Her hips roll up and he has to press her down, arc his body away because it’s too much, and he wants more. All of her. Endlessly.

She wipes a trail of sweat from his brow and releases his mouth to press fleeting kisses over his cheek, his jaw, his forehead. He can tell she’s trying to remain still but her body keeps moving, inching towards his in whatever way it can and he thinks of magnets and black holes and event horizons and slides his hand into her hair. 

Her name falls into the space between their mouths and she nods, almost frantic, leg sliding up his thigh over his hip but she lets him guide himself inside her and he tries to go slow but his body jerks forward. River moans, not pained thank god, despite the grip he has on her waist, and he mutters what he hopes sounds like an apology into her neck. 

She shushes him, arms around his neck but her hands don't move, just rest, like she knows he’ll fall apart at the slightest touch. 

“Okay?” she murmurs, and he nods, but she’s so warm and it’s been so long with only his own hand and scattered memories and he thinks of diamonds and wrists and the cold slide of her feet against his when they sleep and he isn't sure how long they stay, frozen in time and motion until he feels strong enough to lift his head, and wishes he hadn't.

It's too much, the look on her face, too much love and compassion and understanding; too much knowledge of him, not just facts and stories but his mind and hearts and everything inbetween; she looks at him like he’s a masterpiece, a star, a sunset, flawed and cold and too bright; like she knows he’ll burn her up eventually and she doesn't care, welcomes it all because it’s _him_ —not the Doctor who saves everyone, not the Time Lord who ran away, not even the madman in a box. She looks at him like she'd love him with or without it all, time and space and more stars in one sky; like she’d love him without anything he could give her. Loves just him, imperfectly, irrevocably. 

She cups his jaw, thumb brushing under his eye. “Sweetie?”

He swallows. “Happy tears,” he manages, and she smiles.

“Thought there was no such thing?”

“I forgot about this,” he admits, and knows she knows he doesn't just mean sex, means everything, and her smile widens into teasing.

“I'm going to forget too in a minute if you don't—”

“Shut up,” he mutters, kissing away her smirk even as he takes the hint, a tentative withdraw and press of his hips and it's all he can do not to let his eyes roll back. 

“Sweetie,” she starts, and he knows what she’s going to say, and stops her. 

“I'm fine. There’ll just be—”

“What?”

He grimaces. “Flaws and starts.”

River arches an eyebrow. “‘Impostors to true fear?’”

There’s something in her voice, the careful way she’s watching him, that makes his chest tighten, and he knows she’s read into it, whether he intended it or not. Knows she’s thinking of how far he’s run, whether he’ll run from this, and for the first time in a long time, it isn't a lie when he shakes his head, meets her gaze and says, “I'm not afraid.”

She nods slowly, eyes shadowed, and it’s a moment before she asks, so quietly, “And if I am?”

It’s the vulnerability he always looked for but never wanted to find, what she hid so carefully, so boldly, now echoed between them and he swears this time he’ll let it thrive. Let it show instead of pretending it doesn't exist. 

Shifting his weight to one arm, he lifts a hand and gently traces the bridge of her nose, letting his finger rest on the tip. “Rule seven,” he murmurs, and she kisses him, hands tangling in his hair as she presses her body closer, breasts against his chest and he lets his hand fall to one, squeezing a bit too roughly, trying to distract himself from the ache in his cock and the lights behind his eyes and everything in him that says to start moving and never stop. To run towards her, not away. 

Her hand on his arse startles him and he jerks forward, pressing deeper inside her and he moans, takes every ounce of energy not to keep pressing until he comes without her, and he curses under his breath. 

River laughs, a soft sound that travels through her body, and she shakes her head at him fondly. “Sweetie…”

“I'm not a bloody teenager,” he mutters.

She rolls her eyes. “I never said you were.”

“I’ll be fine.” 

River shifts, wrapping her other leg over his hip and the angle makes him grunt, squeezing his eyes shut. 

“Rude.”

He can hear her grin. “Pointed.”

“River—”

“It’s already perfect,” she murmurs. “I don't need anything else.”

He snorts. “What, like an orgasm?”

River shrugs. “It’s your turn.”

He cracks an eye open. “Since when have you started to share?”

She slaps his arm lightly. “I'm perfectly giving in bed, which well you know. So stop being so stubborn.” When he doesn't respond, she sighs, voice softening. “You can let go, my love.”

His eyes sting and he can't wait, not any longer and with every ounce of energy he possesses, pulls back, both of them groaning at the loss until he maneuvers her on top of him. Her hair catches in his hand and he grunts at the elbow to his ribs but then she’s sliding down over him, hands near his head and her face close to his, his fingers falling into place over the bruises he's already left. 

“Move,” he manages, somehow, lips barely touching. “Please, River—”

She arches up, leaving him almost completely before sliding back down, again and again, so slow he thinks he might go insane, feels like he’s staring into the Time Vortex all over again, but this time he wants to run toward it, wants to bury himself in it. His hips follow hers, her softness and warmth and pants against his mouth and he feels like dying, like singing, like he’s burning cold and it’s her voice in his ear, whispers of her breath and _I love you_ s stolen away in gentle encouragements and everything tightens and fades away and bursts and he turns his head, captures her mouth just as his hearts skip. 

“I can't—” he tries, but he comes so hard his throat closes and his vision whites out and when he opens his eyes again she’s smiling down at him, wicked and adoring, face flushed, eyes bright. 

He struggles, but manages to pull his fingers from her hip, to brush her matted hair back from her face. Her cheek tilts into his palm, her hand coming up to cover his for a moment before she drags it away, between her thighs, and he smirks. 

“Told you,” he mutters, fingers slipping over her clit, cutting off her inevitable protest. 

He’s softening inside her, knows it can't be comfortable but she makes no effort to move away, just sits back, sits up and closes her eyes, hand braced on his chest as his fingers circle and press and she gasps, free hand coming up to squeeze her breast when his nail catches on her clit so he does it again, and again, follows her up and kisses her shoulder, her collarbone, the hollow of her throat. 

She whimpers at the first flick of his tongue over her nipple, hand tangling in his hair to hold him there and his cock twitches.

“Sweetie.” It’s strangled, almost begging, and he presses harder, palms her breast and lifts his head to kiss her, because he has to, needs to, lets his mind slide into hers, jumbled thoughts and emotions and things he can't say and her breathing shutters, catches, and then she’s falling, body shuddering even as she collapses into him, head buried in the crook of his neck. 

He presses kisses to her hair, wraps his arms around her and moves his hands up and down her spine, as much for her as for him, to feel her hearts beat under his palms, ragged and for him; to feel sweat-slicked skin that matches his own. 

She does the same, shifting so he slides out of her but resettles in his lap, and he can't remember the last time he hugged her, if he’s ever hugged her, can't remember hugs ever feeling like this. 

_It’s just a way to hide your face_ , he’d said, but he doesn't feel like hiding. Wouldn't mind if she pulled back now and saw his expression, hopelessly besotted. 

She does, finally, and he smiles, a crooked grin he knows looks strange, but she doesn't seem to care. 

When he catches her jaw in his palm, she stays this time, watching him watching her. 

He swallows, and clears his throat. “I was thinking we should get a house.”

River blinks, too lethargic to be startled, and then smiles. “Okay.”

He eyes her carefully. “On Darillium.”

“Wherever.”

“Neptune?” he asks, because he knows she hates it. 

She keeps smiling. “Fine.”

“With a garden?”

“You're pulling the weeds.”

He frowns. “I don't know how to fix anything. Electrical. Plumbing.”

“I do.”

“We’d have to get a mortgage.”

She shakes her head. “We’ll pay it off in one go.”

“How?”

“Unlike some people, I have a real job.”

He snorts. “Archaeology isn't a real—”

“Careful.” He pouts, and she laughs quietly, brushing a hand through his hair. “Twenty-four years.”

It isn't a question anymore. 

_I love you,_ he thinks. 

River smiles, blinding. _I know._


End file.
